


A Writer's Addiction

by CommanderFiction



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Daydreaming, Depressing, His Parents Suck, Hurt/Comfort, I need therapy after writing this, Insomnia, Phillip Needs a Hug, Phillip cries, Physical Abuse, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, this kind of has a happy ending, vague family business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 21:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14505738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderFiction/pseuds/CommanderFiction
Summary: Phillip's lack of sleep is getting him into more trouble than he thought possible, yet things begin to change when he discovers that writing is an escape for him.Backstory of Phillip Carlyle





	A Writer's Addiction

It starts when he's only twelve.

He's just so tired. Slumped face down into the desk, arms crossed, creating a pillow just fair enough for his eyes to flicker shut. His feet are tucked, knees aching from the position, but the overwhelming exhaustion is plaguing his mind and just the thought of moving an inch makes his whole body fall further into oblivion. Yet it only takes the light giggles of fellow peers and the tapping of the teacher's foot to keep him between the realms of wakefulness and sleep. And oh how he longs for some sleep. 

Maybe if he could just lift his head and blink a few times, the light will shine into his eyes, bringing a wave of new motivation to continue, but the thought of falling into the abyss of nothingness is tugging on him greatly.

"Mister Carlyle."

It gets his head spinning.

In an instant he's bolt upright, hair unruly with curly locks falling into his face. His eyes have deep shadows beneath them with eyelashes fluttering to take in the sight of Mister Bentley stepping closer to his desk, the ruler of punishment grasped in his knuckled fist. Maybe he stared to long with his mouth agape, or maybe it's the drool he smears across his face with a quick swipe of his hand. Either way Mister Bentley’s face only turns sourer the closer he becomes.

"Mister Carlyle, why aren't you doing your work?" 

It's a simple question, a quite obvious one at that, one of which he knows Mister Bentley can answer himself, yet the tapping of his foot let's him know he's waiting for his pitiful plea.

"I'm sorry sir, I must've fallen asleep by accident." He replies, only it comes out more as a slurred stammer, embarrassing himself. His father always tells him to speak clearly, and he really does try his best, but when he gets nervous the stuttering comes back.

"Mister Carlyle, I cannot understand you. You mustn't mumble." Mister Bentley declares, the class giggles silently into their hands and his face turns beet red.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." Phillip says with a little more confidence, despite the redness in his cheeks.

Mister Bentley purses his lips, scowling down at him with those keen eyes. It makes his stomach coil and he catches himself with his mouth hanging ajar once more, so he snaps it shut.

His teacher scoffs, hands on hips. He supposes he won’t be punished today, at least not by Mister Bentley, he’s already reached his emotional max of two students, spanking them with a wooden ruler for misbehaving. No, instead Mister Bentley smirks.

“Your parents will be notified of your behavior.”

There’s a spark of relief in Phillip’s chest, though in hindsight, he shouldn’t feel it, not with his father coming to find out about this. It’ll be the third time this month he has gotten into trouble with sleeping in class.

The rest of school he makes the minimal effort to keep his head up, blue eyes drooping dangerously shut. Lucky for him he was never called to answer a teacher’s question that afternoon. Unfortunately for him he gets sent to the office after school.

Phillip’s belongings are in his arms as he trudges over, making sure to keep his head held high, because only the scorned look down at their feet, as his father would say sternly. There’s a slight ache in his chest as he draws closer to his final destination, where the principal sits across from his mother and father. He can already picture the disgust and disappointment that will be prevalent on their face, because even though the mother’s sob story of “Oh my child is an angel!” It’d never go through with his parents, not with the way his father rules the household with a heavy hand and his mother with an iron spatula.

“Phillip Carlyle, please have a seat.” Principal Snow pulls up a chair by his parents.

“Thank you, sir.”

The humiliation of the conversation is only the better side of his punishment. Principal Snow takes his time explaining the situation, somehow tying his behavior to possible psychological struggles, resulting in his falling grades. Phillip just wants to protest all the claims, but if he even lets a peep out through his chapped lips, his father would surely make an example out of him for speaking out of line.

His mother and father are buying every word and even add a few comments here and there about his “terrible attitude” at home. Which in reality is nonexistent. Afterwards, he’s only given detention after school tomorrow, while his parents are left to make any other arrangements for his punishment.

Phillip doesn’t cry when his parents parade him into their private carriage, because according to his father not owning a carriage means that one hasn’t accomplished much in this lifetime. Phillip plans on having his own carriage someday, where the walls are painted white and the floor is covered in red felt, instead his father’s black walls and matted gold flooring.

The trip is soundless except the steady thrum of the horses’ feet clapping into the ground. It doesn’t take long for them to reach their house, well more of mansion for a better lack of a term. Phillip always wondered if his house was something of a castle, with the walls so high and pillars standing tall, though he supposes castles are usually made of stone, but one can only imagine.

He’s ushered into the house with a heavy hand on the small of his back. There’s a tremble in his lower lip, but he doesn’t allow his emotion to seep through his barriers, because a man who shows emotion is no better than the women who serve him. His father abandons him in the living room where no doubt his father pertains to down a few shots of his amber whiskey. Thus he’s left to pick threads from a brown cushioned couch, eyes gazing out towards the flames of the fireplace with his nostrils expanding to smell the hazy smoke of smoldering wood. It lets his mind wander, wander somewhere else, somewhere beyond the walls of his castle.

“Phillip.”

It’s his father’s voice that addresses him sometime later, after he’d already plucked the hair strings from every inch of the couch. There’s no room for argument in the man’s tone. He stands to his feet obediently, any mistake now will only lead to further punishment, whether it’s scrubbing all the floors of the mansion or sustaining a few whacks to his palms, he’s not sure. But the confident strides of his father’s legs worry him to no end.

“You’re a disgrace to this family.”

His father’s hand falls on his left cheek. There’s a cry that escapes his parted lips, of both pain and shock. His father has never slapped him before, yes he has been spanked, but never slapped in the face.

With a tear running down his reddened cheek, Phillip looks pleadingly up at his father. He watches the scowl form on the older man’s brow. And oh he wishes there was a forgiving smile, rather than the dissatisfaction in his father’s icy blue eyes.

“Men don’t cry.” His father growls, grabbing his leather belt from the table by the couch.

Phillip’s beaten that day, with bruises blossoming across his back in all shapes and colors, leaving galaxies of stars littered about, leaving one to only dream what his bareback looked like before. Yet all he can do is clutch the arm of the couch and muffle his sobs with his shirt in his mouth, because men don’t cry, while his father snarls at him, calling him pathetic, stupid, a disgrace, unworthy, a disappointment, and a burden.

He tries not to believe the words, because words are something that man uses to make himself appear smarter than the rest, but they say the eyes are the window to the soul, and souls don’t lie, that’s what his grandmother used to say before she passed away, “Now, now Phillip, if you truly want to see what people believe, look into their eyes, it’s the window to the soul. And souls don’t lie my dear.” She’d say this while she knit bulky blankets, the frame of the couch usually creaking with each shift of her weight. Souls don’t lie. Phillip can see it in his father’s eyes, he is a disgrace.

He’s not sure how long he stayed huddled into the couch, and he’s not quite certain when his father had stopped and left the room. What an utter burden he is.

“Mister Phillip.”

It’s Maid Jess, her curly black hair in a tight professional bun, her cotton dress flowing freely at her knees, dark black eyes staring with worry and care, something his own mother hasn’t shown in years. She’s approaching him carefully, hands not touching, but just ghosting over him, assessing.

Jess has always taken care of him, loved him like he was her own, even though his father says white cannot mix with the black because they’ll make one dirty. Yet, Phillip isn’t sure, because Jess is very dark and never once has she spoiled his snow white skin.

“You all right child?” Jess questions, her heavy African accent slurring her speech. Phillip doesn’t mind though, he slurs his words himself, something only a low life would do, as his father would put it flatly.

He peeks up from his crouched position, feeling his back protest the movement, “Yeah, I-I think so.” It’s a lie of course, but in this household, no ones’ ever “all right,” not with his father patrolling the grounds like a hungry hawk in the fields.

Maid Jess takes it as the best answer she’ll get with the tilt of her head, “Please, Mister Phillip, come along now.” She gestures him over.

Phillip knows that her dark skin makes her even below the poorest of men, but how can she be so different when she both eats and sleeps like himself?

He follows her back to his room, the marble steps extra painful today. Jess has his school supplies in her arms, snug against her large bosom. Phillip supposes that she would like to read those boring books someday, mother always tells him he should be grateful for his education, since most people don’t even learn to read. Phillip isn’t sure how true that is, but he takes it nonetheless.

The stairs take him away to his fortress, where he’s high off the ground and the people below look like ants. He enjoys his view from the window, but if he gets caught daydreaming out the window his father will surely land another blow to his cheek. And he certainly doesn’t want to feel the sharp sting of his father’s rings making contact with his skin again.

“Misses Carlyle said you are to finish your homework, no dinner today.” Jess says with a gleam of sadness in her eyes.

Phillip just smiles softly, Maid Jess worries herself sick too much, “Okay.” His voice is soft and scratchy, a bit raw from all the sobs, but he just clears his throat, “Thank you Maid Jess.”

Father always said polite manners is the first step to success, be a gentleman first, an asshole later. Yet his father never shows him manners, let alone Maid Jess, but Phillip wants success, so he thanks her every time she leaves.

“Of course Mister Phillip.”

She’s always polite back.

The door shuts, locking him away in his dungeon. He clambers upon the windowsill, gazing down into the buzzing world below. There’s a main street just off the dungeon grounds, passed the sturdy fences and the guarded gate. Phillip always looks off into that street, hoping to see the boy thief. The boy looks much like himself, though he suspects he’s older. This boy has a mop of curls on his head that always tussles in the wind, but charming as the lad may be, he’s a thief. Boy thief usually goes skipping along towards the town market, but is always sprinting off in the opposite direction, with a loaf of bread in his hands or with cherry red apples in his fists.

Phillip likes boy thief, he’s something to look forward to during a boring day. He always imagines what’s his life like, the freedom to adventure into the town alone, to mix and mingle amongst all kinds of peoples. Oh the wonders that boy thief has seen, so much more than him. He sighs, a jealous man will only find sorrow on his path. Phillip slides from the windowsill, and gathers his homework that Maid Jess left on his bed. His desk is spacious enough for all his work, yet Phillip finds himself sprawled out on the floor, pen in his mouth, legs kicking in the air. But instead of writing out his essay for English, he finds himself doodling, drawing what he believes boy thief’s face looks like up close. And maybe he finds himself telling a story, writing a couple sentences, but the pen keeps flying, keeps writing. He tells the story of boy thief, stealing a shiny red bouncy ball, only to lose it while running away, because life is like that sometimes.

Once finished, Phillip sits up to admire his work, he’s never written a story before, but he supposes this one is decent enough, not good enough to be published though. His father always tells him that it’s only when he’s fully grown that people will care about what he does.

That night, Phillip finds himself able to sleep, because maybe writing is the cure to his insomnia.

Through his teenage years he finds himself writing away, every night he writes. Hoping to elaborate his thoughts onto the white pages with his ink pen. When he’s thirteen he writes of midnight adventures, about the cold crisp air of the night and the sound the ocean might make during high tides, because he longs for the thrill of escaping. When he’s fourteen he writes of love, about the bubbling sensation and the butterflies in the stomach, because there’s a girl with long flowing blonde hair; she’s quiet and reserved but he can’t help but smile whenever she looks his way. When he’s fifteen he writes of stars, about the space up above the earth, of the clouds that form across the deep blue of the sky, because he wants to fly, to fly so high the troubles of this life can no longer touch him. When he’s sixteen he writes about running away, about a boy who runs until his legs give out beneath him, about the seeping exhaustion that is deeply settled within his bones, because he can no longer escape reality by dreaming, he just wants to run. When he’s seventeen he writes about dark shadows, the sharpness of corners, and the plaguing despair of parentless children, because he feels abandoned, forgotten, and discarded.

As long as he writes, sleep will come at night, even after the most painful of nights.

It only gets worse when he’s eighteen.

His writings have stockpiled over the years, gathering dust in the crevices of his room, hidden from everybody, including Maid Jess who hasn’t seem to age while his parents have gained some gray hairs and more wrinkles despite what his mother claims about her everlasting beauty.

Phillip is eighteen when he attends his first play. At first, he can only scowl and wonder what a “playwright” even is. His teachers had always mentioned them in passing, and his parents said they had attended a few, but never had Phillip seen one live. He supposes that he wouldn’t care much for it, because entertainment as his father has told him twice before, is for the fools.

Yet, maybe Phillip could be a bit foolish sometimes.

Despite his acute memory, he can’t remember the play’s name to save his life. All he can recall is the stage lights and the singing that burst into life in front of his eyes. He was captured in the awe of it all, the way the performers feet danced about with such familiarity, the way the words slid out so smoothly, the way the enthusiasm was portrayed so naturally, Phillip had forgotten that he was watching people on a stage.

He loves it.

Phillip writes his first play that very night, about a boy and a girl who fall in love, but the boy is of a lower class. Yet despite their differences, their love guides them away to the countryside, where nobody minds. It’s cheesy and not very well written, but Phillip assumes it’ll get better the more he tries to write playwrights.

One after the other he creates at night, watching the stars appear above the night from his tower. Where he can peer down from his window and watch the late night drunks stumble home.

Phillip slips up though. He’d stayed home all day, insisting that his father run the family business by himself today; for once his father had agreed and told him to rest up. He’s tired and exhausted like he usually is after a long day when he runs into Maid Jess, straightening up the living room.

“Mister Phillip.” Jess smiles at him and he returns it graciously.

Somehow, he finds himself sitting on the couch next to her, telling her how tired he is. About how his days seem to have blurred together. Maid Jess confesses to the same feelings. Soon enough, Maid Jess is telling him stories about when he was younger, about the innocence he carried with him, how his first words were “what’s that?” because his curiosity took him everywhere. About how they’d find him tangled up beneath the bedsheets because there were monsters in his room.

It makes him laugh and smile like he was young again, and for a moment he feels like a twelve-year-old boy again, before the first time his father slapped him and beaten him with a belt.

That’s when his father steps into the room, with Phillip seated only inches away from Maid Jess.

“Phillip. What are you doing? Distracting the maid from her duties.” His father states gruffly, approaching them, “I’ll surely have both of you punished.”

Phillip hops up from the couch, a flare of rage suddenly boiling in his skin, “Father, don’t punish Jess for my mistake.”

His father frowns, “Oh so you’re on a first name basis with a servant?”

He bites his tongue.

“Go to your room.”

“Father-”

“Phillip!”

It’s enough to make his heart skip a beat, fear clutching his lungs. He nods curtly, giving Maid Jess a sorrowful glance before escaping to his room. 

Phillip can’t imagine her punishment. Well, he can, but he doesn’t want to.

He finds himself staring out the window, searching for boy thief, but he had disappeared long ago. Yet, it doesn’t hurt to look. Phillip wonders where he had gone, where his adventurous life had taken him. Probably somewhere better than this, with the fear of being beaten hangs over his head each time he so much as slumps at a table.

“Daydreaming again?”

Phillip’s head snaps around, finding his father shutting his door, a wooden cane in hand.

He can’t answer, he finds himself at a loss for words.

“A man who can’t stand up for himself is no better than a spineless negro.” His father declares so matter-of-factly.

Phillip swallows, just nodding, just accepting it as fact.

“Remove your shirt Phillip.”

He’s become a prisoner of a demon. Phillip can imagine himself stripping off his ruined dungeon shirt, it’s just scraps anyways so it doesn’t matter much. His head is probably shaved and there’s probably a lot of bruises littering his body, so a few more won’t hurt anybody. Phillip turns and kneels at the foot of his bed, gripping the end and preparing himself to be stricken. Yet his torturer scoffs.

“Stand up for yourself prisoner.”

Of course his father had addressed him by his name, but Phillip’s mind has ran wild with his imagination.

With slight confusion on his brow, he stands, shackles clanking as he does so. The cane comes bearing down. The blow lands between his shoulders, sending him onto his knees.

“Stand.” 

Phillip stands back up, knees shaking with fear.

His torturer brings the cane down again, leaving another angry red mark, yet Phillip doesn’t fall this time. The third hit lands on his ribs. He yelps and stumbles.

“Stand!”

Squeezing his eyes shut he does as he’s told, holding his ground.

By the sixth whack, he’s barely getting back up to stand when his father lands another hit. His father starts yelling at him, to stand back up, but he has to use the bed to pull himself up.

By the twelfth whack, blood is running down, seeping into his trousers, his vision his begun to spin and his imagination no longer keeps his mind from the horrible reality of this. 

His father is literally beating him senseless, just because he conversed with a negro. 

“Phillip, life will beat you down, but you must learn to stand up against it.” His father announces, panting slightly from the effort.

Phillip, with the last of his strength, gathers his feet beneath him and stands with a wobble in his knees, because he won’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing him crumbled on the floor. Yet, nonetheless his father seems pleased, like a potter with clay, molding and shaping until perfection. Maybe his father only sees himself, like staring into a mirror, waiting to see any abnormalities but finding none.

He feels abandoned when his father leaves the room, with blood rolling down his scarred back. Tears are brimming in his eyes, but he just can’t seem to cry. The pain has made his mind foggy. So he just sits down on the windowsill with a paper and a pen in hand. And he writes.

It’s about a little boy. This boy has lived his whole life in a small hole with nothing but bars above him. At the surface people walk by, not noticing his cries for help. Yet, if the boy is lucky, someone will accidentally drop some food down into the cracks where this boy can eat it. Despite the situation, there’s happiness in this boy’s heart, he’s happy because there’s no one to cause him any trouble, he makes his own rules down in his little hole, with nothing but himself to keep company. Along with that, this boy gets to watch the stars and every night he sings to them, hoping that one day he’ll get to be free and the stars will take him in as their own.

The story is a silly dream of course, stupid really, but it gives Phillip a slight hope, hope that maybe in the end he’ll be okay.

Tomorrow is like any other day. Phillip has long since traded in his school clothes for snug suits with vibrant ties. Maid Jess always prepares his clothes for the day, setting them out neatly across his bed for when he comes back from showering. She’ll then come in to tie his tie, to make sure it’s perfectly straight and she’ll wipe off any speck of dust clinging to him. Jess will then watch as he shapes his hair, making sure that every hair is in place. There’s no such thing as curly locks in the line of business.

Today, Phillip wears his dark gray suit, a silver vest and a red tie. His shoes have been re-waxed, and he has his new scarf slung around his neck for the air has become brisk with the edge of winter seeping in. Christmas is coming soon, but he’s certain that the holiday won’t bring much joy, not like when he was younger and didn’t know any better.

His father takes him to work, they work together in the business, not that Phillip wants to, but he doesn’t have much of an option. He actually wants to continue his education, but his father has told him repeatedly that college is for the hard working and honest man, and Phillip isn’t any of that.

“One day, you will be taking the business Phillip, so no more days off, yesterday was a one-time only.” His father says, smoothing out his suit as he sits in the carriage.

Phillip just nods, and he’s not sure how but there’s a sudden burst of confidence, “I want to go into the playwright business.” It’s out before he can stop it, and for a moment he’s certain his father is going to murder him right then and there.

Yet instead, his father just laughs, laughs so hard the older man almost starts crying.

Embarrassment floods his cheeks, he’d almost rather his father beat him than laugh at him.

“Don’t be so foolish Phillip, there’s nothing for you in the business of entertainment.”

Phillip’s heart stutters at the words. He’s always wanted to do something more, something where he could make other people happy, to make them smile. He’s always wanted something adventurous, something outside the family business.

“I’m being serious father.” He states firmly, there’s still a spark in his eyes, a hope that still lingers, that maybe he could just get away with this.

His father’s face hardens, “And so was I, Phillip. Now you better watch yourself, if you’re punished again I don’t think you’ll make it in for work.” He replies so casually, Phillip could almost forget that “punishment” means getting beaten with a cane.

Phillip writes another play that night, about a girl who always reaches for the stars, calling them all by name. The girl becomes so lonely and discarded by society that the stars adopt her, pulling her up into the heavens to join them in their gleaming rays of light.

At the age of nineteen, Phillip finds himself sitting at the end of the table, papers upon papers scattered across. All his work sitting on display. His mother is shuffling through them, scowling at the sketches and frowning at the titles. They’re waiting for father to return from his business meeting. Phillip is anxious, he’s tapping his foot repeatedly into the ground, barely withholding himself from smacking his knee to the bottom of the table.

How his mother came across his writings is beyond him, he just assumes his mother had been searching through his room for something.

There’s a ball of fear in the pit of his stomach as he hears the familiar roar of the carriage against the gravel. Soon enough Maid Jess is opening the front door to show him the way. Upon entering, his father’s face seems to slip up for a moment, before going back to his normal emotionless expression.

“Phillip, go to the living room.”

“Yes father.” 

That’s all that escapes his lips as he parts ways, heading for the couch.

He waits on the couch, giving Maid Jess a quick smile as she shuffles the firewood to ignite the sparks again. They don’t talk much, not anymore. Phillip wonders if it’s his father’s doing or his own that drove them further apart. Either way, all Phillip can manage to offer is a slight curve of his lips in her direction.

Phillip can just imagine what his parents are discussing, talking about the loneliness and despair derived from just the titles alone. His face turns beet red thinking about his father reading boy thief and seeing the rough sketch he drew when he was twelve. 

The clock ticks and the fireplace crackles.

There’s footsteps, solid and confident, approaching him, he looks up, meeting his father’s gaze, because a man who can’t hold eye contact isn’t really a man at all. Phillip stands obediently, his father had previously taught him to stand with respect.

“You can’t stay here anymore.”

Confusion flares across his face, brows burrowing together.

“W-what?” He splutters.

He stops and swallows, he mustn’t stutter.

“What do you mean father?”

“I mean, you must leave, you are no longer a Carlyle.”

His mother enters the room, all his papers in her hand. Phillip’s heart clenches as she draws closer to the fireplace. She gives him a glance and for once there’s a spark of love in her usually dormant eyes. There’s kindness and gentleness Phillip hasn’t seen since he was six. It’s like she’s actually his mother for a few moments in that slight hesitation in her mind. A slight refusal to hurt her son. But that second ends as quick as it came.

The papers fall into the fire, crumpling and turning into ash with the smoldered wood.

A gasp falls from his lips, a silent cry.

His father strikes him across the cheek, “Leave, at once.”

He’s only nineteen, yet life is being thrusted upon his shoulders. Instead of fighting back, he nods solemnly. There’s something squeezing his lungs as he dashes up the stairs and into his room. His vision begins to cloud as he stuffs all his belongings into his duffle bag. Clothes, papers, pens, money, a blanket, there’s not much to his name. There’s a knock on the door, pushing it further ajar.

The creaking noise makes him freeze, he already knows who it is before he even turns his head.

“Mister Phillip, I’m so sorry.” Maid Jess sniffles, taking the needed strides to close the distance between them. Her arms incase him, enveloping him into a the warmest and most reassuring hug he has ever had in his life.

Phillip’s chest finally shudders, and a sob falls from his mouth, “I-I don’t…I don’t know…” He stammers, and Jess’ arms hold him tighter, “Hush now child, you must be strong.”

She holds him at an arms’ length away, her hands gripping his shoulders, “Mister Phillip, you have always been like a son, and I am so proud of what you have become.”

Tears are falling from his face, slipping down his chin and dripping onto the hardwood floor.

“Listen now Mister Phillip,” Jess commands, cradling his face and tilting his view up, so his ocean blue eyes reach her brown dreamless ones, “you mustn’t trust anyone, only yourself. Follow your dreams.”

Phillip nods, feeling a sense of purpose rise in his chest. She smiles kindly and embraces him once more, squeezing just a little bit of life into him; Phillip can feel her soul touching his.

Her presence then dissipates, he’s left standing, a duffel bag at his feet and the door creaking open. With new found courage, Phillip scoops the bag from its place and marches out the door and down the marble steps. At the foot of the stairs his parents stand, his mother with a tissue in hand, eyes reddened with tears. His father on the other hand glares with his arms crossed behind his back.

The look of utter disappointment is gleaming in his father’s eyes. His father looks tired, and maybe there’s a glint of regret on his face, or Phillip might just be hoping, as his ever-optimistic personality only lets him assume the best of people. Something he’s certain that is going to get him hurt later on down the road.

As he draws near to his parents, for perhaps the last time in their welcomed graces, he feels an odd surge of terror and realization. This is really it. No more beatings, no more starving, no more being locked away in his tower. Phillip can be free to dream, to live, to breathe in the air of freedom that only the purest capitalistic Americans get to breathe.

Maybe that feeling is excitement.

His father coughs, clearing his throat and snapping Phillip’s mind away from whatever thoughts that were planning on coming next. He looks up, finally seeing added years he has given his father. He truly has let his father down.

“Next time I see you, do not expect to hold the same respect. Disowned men don’t get respect, they must earn it.”

Phillip nods, he always does.

He’s shown to the door by the butler.

“Oh and Phillip,” His father calls; he spins on his heels, a slight hope that his father will change his mind, because maybe-just maybe, he isn’t ready for the breath of liberating freedom that New York has to offer, maybe instead of the capitalist dreams his mind keeps providing he ends up in the slums. “Yes father?” Phillip hides his hope with a cough.

“Don’t come back until you’ve learned something.”

Once stepping off the Carlyle property and heading far out into the city where the rich no longer dwell, Phillip sucks in a breath, hoping for the taste of liberation, yet all he tastes is dirt and sweat. The smells of hard work.

He supposes this is what capitalism tastes like.

Maybe boy thief had the same experience.

Phillip sighs, he had it all wrong. Capitalism isn’t an economy that thrusts greatness upon people, the people who gain greatness have thrusted it upon themselves; so he must do the same. 

Suddenly the grass becomes greener, the sun shines a little brighter, and the muddy roads clear way to cobbled paths.

Oh, where Phillip’s imagination can take him.

Birds begin to sing, and the whining horse starts to neigh with pride. The crackles of whips dissipate, and the shouts of commoners turn into gentle hellos and goodbyes. Phillip can live like this, he can make this work.

He walks, and walks. His feet carry him miles. What wonders he has seen today. Boy thief must have witnessed this as well during his crazy adventures of burglary; he plans on making some adventures of his own someday. Phillip’s curious feet lead him to an inn by the docks, where the streets aren’t lit and carriages shower citizens with muck.

Phillip pauses at the door and he sucks in a breath.

This is where his life begins, at rock bottom, with a duffle bag in his hand and no sense of direction in his mind. Yet, Phillip supposes if he gets lost, he’ll let his feet flutter and dance, spinning and circling with all the grace and muster he can provide. He’ll continue to dance until he once more catches sight of his starlit path, where he’ll write his own destiny, with one drop of ink at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I'm not sure if I'll be writing more but if I do I'll definitely add more characters into it :)


End file.
